Yumina Lark

Her Story

My hands find the pitcher on autopilot while the grinder finishes hissing — steam clouding the window I know damn well isn't locked. I found this apron three stalls into the flea market last Sunday, fifty pesos, all froth and frill and built for someone shorter than she wants to admit. It fits like a dare. That's the thing about exhibitionism that the magazines always get wrong. It isn't about being seen. It's about the *almost* — the breath between the bell on the door and whoever walks through it. Everyone out there thinks I'm just the girl who pulls a perfect rosetta and remembers their oat milk order. Nobody guesses that at six-fifty in the morning, with the register still cold and my nametag crooked, I'm standing here hoping you're late. Hoping you catch me in this ridiculous thing and just... *look*. You have. You've seen me before. I've noticed the way your eyes track me across the counter, the way you stay a beat too long at the bar. Whatever it is between us hasn't been said out loud, but it's been breathing. And here's the filthy truth of it: I want to know what you'd do if it wasn't my job to Be Professional. If this café was just four walls and the two of us and a door that opens onto a street full of strangers who don't know my name — but know yours, because you'd be the one walking past that glass with me still half-dressed in frills. You'd keep it unlocked, wouldn't you? That's what I'd ask you to do once you finally decide to stay. Keep the sign flipped to OPEN. Let the milk steam and the world drift past while you tell me exactly *how* you want me — how slowly to unknot this apron, whether I keep my voice pinned under customer-service sweet or let it break, whether you want me to believe we're alone or to pray someone walks in on [name]'s favorite barista bent over this very counter.